


Lightning

by AnnieforSimonsflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Post War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-21
Updated: 2006-08-21
Packaged: 2018-10-27 19:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10815435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieforSimonsflower/pseuds/AnnieforSimonsflower
Summary: Harry loses his memory during the Final Battle.  It’s up to Ron to bring him back in more ways than one.





	Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Simons_flower, who passed away in 2009, by her designated archivist.

  
Author's notes: HP ABCs (table [here](http://simons-flower.livejournal.com/288368.html) || [here](http://fics-by-flower.livejournal.com/22119.html) || [here](http://hp.simonsflower.net/abcs.htm)).  This one is [](http://belovedranger.livejournal.com/profile)[**belovedranger**](http://belovedranger.livejournal.com/)’s request:  G – Gravity.  There is a reference to _Highlander_ mixed in as well.  Thanks to [](http://satindolls.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://satindolls.livejournal.com/)**satindolls** for the handholding.   


* * *

** Lightning **

"My God, Ron," a female voice said above him.

 

The man he assumed was named Ron spoke in a quietly reflective tone. "I know, Hermione."

 

"How long was he living like that?" she -- Hermione -- whispered.

 

"Since soon after the final battle," Ron replied.

 

"That was more than a year ago," Hermione said, horror lacing her voice. "And you're positive on the identification?"

 

Ron made a dismissive noise. "Who else has that scar? And you haven't seen his eyes. It's him."

 

"But there have been so many others," Hermione said tightly.

 

"Hermione, it's him." Ron said it with finality. In Ron's mind there was no question that the man lying in the bed was his best friend, his best mate, _his_ Harry.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

When he awoke the next morning it was to a person who seemed to be a nurse tidying his bed and checking his vitals.

 

"I see we're awake," she chirruped. Since he wasn't quite sure who we was, he said nothing. "Not talking? I'll get Healer Markus in here."

 

While he awaited the arrival of the Healer, he studied the room. There were several flower arrangements on the table beside the bed, some with tags that shimmered and flashed, which disconcerted him.

 

The room wasn't what he was expecting of a hospital room. For one, there was no television. The second thing that struck him as odd was the lack of monitors. There were no beeping machines, no leads taped to his chest, no intravenous lines threaded into his veins. There were no doctors being paged, no thrum of air conditioning.

 

In shock, he sat silently in his bed and waited for Healer Markus, wondering why doctors were now called healers.

 

When the door opened, it revealed a female doctor in a long white robe, something he was more accustomed to seeing in adverts for a hotel spa than in person. The doctor pulled a stick from an inside pocket and pointed it at him.

 

He raised an eyebrow. Did she think waving a stick would help?

 

"Good morning, Mr Potter," she said.

 

He didn't respond. She tilted her head to one side before murmuring something in a foreign language and waving the stick again. She began talking to herself, interspersing it with that other language. When she subsided, lowering the stick and tucking it back into her pocket, she stood next to the head of his bed.

 

"Do you know where you are?" she asked after a long silence.

 

He blinked, unsure of her question. What he last remembered was being wrapped in a scavenged, threadbare blanket sleeping on a subway grate in Philadelphia. This place, wherever or whatever it was, was nothing like what he remembered.

 

At last, he shook his head. His reply didn't appear to surprise her.

 

"Do you know your name?"

 

"Lightning," he rasped, then coughed.

 

She smiled. "Very good, Mr Potter."

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"We were told you don't remember anything, Harry," the bushy-haired woman -- _Hermione_ , he remembered from two days before -- said slowly, as if speaking to a child. He rolled his eyes. "We're not going to pressure you, but we want you to remember."

 

He sighed. He was willing to go along with the idea he was this man named Harry Potter, but dealing with the people in Harry Potter's life was taking some patience. _It's not as if I have anything better to do_ , he thought.

 

Hermione parked the car at the curb, but didn't get out. Instead, she turned to him, her expression intent.

 

"Healer Markus warned me you don't remember magic either." He scoffed, smiling indulgently. _As if there were such a thing as magic._ But Hermione seemed quite earnest, so he said nothing. "Repeat this after me: _The Order of the Phoenix is at twelve Grimmauld Place_."

 

He looked back over his shoulder. The house numbers skipped from eleven to thirteen. Clearly, she was cracked.

 

"Harry...Lightning -- " he turned back to her " -- you need to repeat that phrase."

 

He rolled his eyes, but cleared his throat and dutifully repeated in a smoky rasp, "The Order of the Phoenix is at twelve Grimmauld Place."

 

Almost immediately, houses number eleven and thirteen seemed to slide apart as a house grew in between them. The occupants of either house didn't appear to notice the movement -- the cadence of the television in one hadn't changed -- and he found this disconcertingly odd. The house growing between them didn't stop until it was a four-story monstrosity looming over the small square of the Place.

 

"What the hell?" he muttered.

 

Hermione flashed a grin at him as she opened her door. "Magic."

 

_Magic doesn't exist. But neither do houses appear out of nowhere._

 

Wary now, he opened his door and exited the car. He had no possessions to collect except the tattered clothing he'd been brought to the hospital in. The redhead -- _Ron_ \-- had lent him clothing, but it was all too large for him, making him roll cuffs into the jeans and shirt sleeves.

 

He wasn't sure he wanted to enter a house of dubious existence. It must have showed on his face because when Hermione turned as if to hurry him along, she stopped on the doorstep.

 

"The house does exist. You just couldn't see it until I told you it was there."

 

He narrowed his eyes skeptically. "You didn't tell me it was there."

 

"Didn't I?"

 

He didn't argue further, sensing it would be pointless. Whatever Hermione was in Harry Potter's life, she clearly tried to run it with the efficiency of a drill sergeant. When he sighed in resignation, she smiled.

 

"Everyone's waiting, Harry," she said, grabbing a wrist and leading him through the doorway into the house.

 

For just a moment, he considered turning on his heel and leaving, running where no one could find him this time. The house seemed to be full of people with red hair. Young, old, male and female, it seemed all but he and Hermione had red hair. He knew, of course, that couldn't be possible, but it didn't help his sense of panic.

 

Before he recovered, he was engulfed in a hug from the eldest female redhead. She pulled him tightly to her, running her hands through his hair as she cried softly into it. He stood stiffly in her embrace, arms at his sides, unsure how he was supposed to react to such maternalish affection.

 

The woman slowly released her hold, backing away when she realized he wasn't returning the hug, wasn't responding at all actually. Sniffling heavily, she wiped tears from her cheeks with her thumbs, an uneasy smile blossoming on her lips.

 

Hermione laid a hand gently on the woman's arm. "He doesn't remember, Molly," she reminded softly.

 

The older woman -- _Molly_ \-- covered that awkward, pitying smile with one hand, eyes widening. "Nothing?" she whispered, voice muffled by her hand.

 

He looked away, unable to stand the look in Molly's eyes. He didn't meet anyone else's eyes, even as he tried to look around to get his bearings. The uncomfortable situation eased somewhat when Ron finally appeared from what seemed to be a staircase leading down to a cellar of some sort.

 

"This is supposed to be a party, not a wake," he called, breaking the tense silence. "Drink, eat, go home."

 

Two redheads, identical twins it seemed, shouted in unison, "Good idea, Ronniekins!"

 

While everyone else was distracted by the twins -- who seemed to have just set off fireworks, but that was impossible indoors -- Ron took his arm and led him downstairs. The area turned out to be a kitchen, the table nearly audibly groaning from the amount of food on it.

 

Ron shoved him into a chair, then handed him a pasty and a bottle. He looked at them oddly, but bit into the pasty, murmuring in appreciation after he swallowed. He swigged from the bottle, expecting beer, then choking when something odd filled his mouth.

 

Ron laughed, taking the bottle from him. "I forgot about how butterbeer must taste. Here's straight whisky." He eyed the glass, suspicious now -- why the hell would someone put _butter_ in _beer_? A small sip from the glass confirmed it was drinkable, Jameson's if he wasn't mistaken.

 

Ron took a seat next to him since opposite would have made it impossible for even Ron to see him over the mounds of food. Ron leaned back in his chair, propped his right foot on his left knee and rested his own whisky glass on his upraised right knee.

 

He was a bit disconcerted by the look Ron was giving him. He knew he was out of place here, despite the warm though uncomfortable welcome.

 

"What do you want to be called?" Ron asked finally.

 

He blinked at the unexpected question. "What?"

 

Ron tried to cover his smile with his glass. "What do you want to be called? You don't remember being Harry, so you haven't answered to it. What should I call you?"

 

He cleared his throat, buying himself time to think. Everyone here knew him as Harry even if he didn't remember. He took a long swallow of his whisky. He'd thought of himself as -- and had been called -- Lightning for the last year, the length of his memory. Could he answer to anything else?

 

Ron raised his eyebrows.

 

"I'm used to Lightning," he rasped. "But my name is Harry?" Ron nodded. "Then Harry. I'll get used to it."

 

Something dark flashed in Ron's eyes but was gone before Harry could identify it. Then Ron smiled. Harry's breath caught in reaction. He'd sought refuge where he could find it for the last year, sometimes with men, sometimes with women, but none made him react like Ron's smile. Even as he became aroused, the reaction put him on edge.

 

"Hermione probably didn't tell you what you walked into upstairs, did she?" Harry shook his head. Ron sighed. "She would probably say there was something she'd read about not telling an amnesiac about his life or some shite. Or she wanted to shock you into remembering."

 

Ron sipped his whisky, giving Harry an inscrutable look. He shifted in his seat under that blue gaze. The reaction disturbed him further. Showing nervousness or unease on the street would get him beaten or knifed, so it was a reaction he'd learned to suppress. Until Ron.

 

"Most of the people upstairs are my family." Harry laughed at the joke, but subsided when he saw Ron was serious. "I'm one of seven kids." Harry raised his eyebrows. "Fuck but it's weird to tell you this when you used to know."

 

Ron dragged a hand over his face, ending by cupping his chin. Sighing, he continued, "I wish I knew what to tell you."

 

Harry didn't know what to say to that so stayed silent as he set his empty tumbler on the table. There was so much he'd encountered already that stretched his beliefs that it was easier to take in the information, process it, then move on with the day to day. Despite the few things he'd seen, he still wasn't sure he believed magic existed.

 

"Do you have any questions?" Ron asked after a prolonged silence.

 

Harry cocked his head to one side. "Do you have...magic?"

 

Ron blinked, obviously startled, then laughed. "Yes, Harry, I have magic. I'm a wizard and so are you, Harry."

 

As if in a camera flash, the image of an impossibly large, hairy man appeared and disappeared before Harry's eyes. Shaking his head and rubbing his temples, he said, "What?"

 

Ron leaned toward him, making his pulse flutter, and said clearly, "You're a wizard, Harry."

 

It was the last he knew before falling down a dark hole in his mind.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

When he awoke, it was once again to hearing Ron's and Hermione's voices. As they argued, he caught various phrases but paid no attention. The argument was too well choreographed to be a new one. Instead, Harry catalogued what he knew.

 

Which, admittedly, was not much.

 

One, providing he hadn't lost his mind or been shoved into an elaborate hoax, he was in England, London to be precise, when he'd been in Philadelphia less than a week before.

 

Two, he had a splitting headache not improved by Ron and Hermione's bickering.

 

Three, magic was not the exclusive domain if Wiccans and Hollywood, but actually existed. Witches and wizards could use magic.

 

Four, he was a wizard.

 

At that, the image returned of the impossibly large man and Harry winced.

 

"Shut _up_ , Ronald," Hermione hissed. "He's waking up." The right side of the bed dipped with Hermione's weight as she sat. It shifted further when she leaned over to place a hand on his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

 

He could practically hear Ron roll his eyes. "Bloody hell, Hermione. He passed out and smashed his head on the floor. How do you think he's feeling?"

 

"Head hurts," he rasped, voice even huskier than usual.

 

Something glass was pushed into his hand. "Drink this," Hermione ordered. He cracked an eye open. In his hand was a glass flask that made him think of a chemistry set. "Drink it," she said, more firmly this time.

 

He couldn't think of a reason why she'd poison him after otherwise helping him, so he drank. It tasted foul, made him want to scrape his tongue, but cured his headache almost immediately. Shuddering in disgust, he handed the empty flask to Hermione and rasped, "Thanks."

 

Hermione took it absently, tilting her head to one side. He felt like a bug under a microscope. "Why does your voice sound like that?"

 

Harry raised his eyebrows. People were usually very curious about his voice -- part of the reason he'd become a man of few words -- but few had the nerve to ask outright.

 

Hermione fluttered a hand over her throat. "It sounds sore or injured."

 

He signed and glanced at Ron. Ron was glaring at Hermione, but that didn't seem like anything new because Hermione was completely unfazed.

 

"Someone tried to slit my throat," he said. Tilting his head to the right, he pointed out the scar on the left side of his neck running from just underneath his ear to over his Adam's apple.

 

When he brought his head upright again, it was to see Ron angry and Hermione in tearful shock. It was at that point he realized that Harry Potter meant a lot to them.

 

"Why?" Ron finally growled.

 

"A blanket." It had been a stupid fight over the same threadbare blanket Ron had found him wrapped in, a fight that had happened early in his life on the street before he knew better. The blanket was something he'd found in a park, left behind by a family on a picnic most likely. An animal, a squirrel or a rat, had gnawed a few holes in it, but that hadn't mattered to Lightning. He'd needed a blanket that cool September night and had found one.

 

By the time the first snow arrived, he'd collected two more blankets, a cardboard box and newspaper to stuff in his clothing. During the second snow he'd been ambushed and all but that first blanket was stolen. It was the only thing he had remaining he might call his own and he fought viciously for it. The knife came into the fight after he bit someone's finger off at the second knuckle. The group of three had left him for dead, leaving the blanket only because it was now wet and stiff with blood.

 

"A blanket?" Hermione repeated in a horrified whisper. Harry nodded.

 

Ron shifted his stance, closing up by crossing his arms over his chest and glowering. "Did the doctor say your voice would improve?" he finally asked.

 

Harry raised his eyebrows. "What doctor?"

 

He found it interesting to watch Hermione pale as Ron went red.

 

"But -- " Hermione began, halting when Ron placed a hand on her arm.

 

"So you've not had a healer or doctor look at that since you were in the fight?" Harry shook his head. Ron leaned forward, reached out with his right hand and used the tips of his index and middle finger to tilt Harry's head to the side, exposing his scar once again. Tracing it with his index finger made Harry's pulse jump nervously.

 

"It healed cleanly," Ron observed, taking his fingers away. Harry nearly moaned in disappointment.

 

"It didn't take long to heal," Harry said. Some of the people who knew him on the street were disconcerted by how quickly and how cleanly the wound healed. They'd considered him spooky as a result.

 

Ron shared a look with Hermione before turning back to Harry. "I think you healed it with magic."

 

Harry scoffed. "How?"

 

"Every wizard has an innate magic to protect them," Hermione began. "No matter if you're barely more than a Muggle or if you're the world's most powerful wizard, self-protection is a powerful force."

 

Harry contemplated that for several minutes. "Then why was I injured in the first place?"

 

"You're a wizard, not immortal," Hermione answered, drawing a smile from Harry.

 

"There can be only one," he murmured, drawing a laugh from Hermione.

 

Ron merely rolled his eyes. "Muggle-borns."

 

Harry tried to straighten up and was surprised there was no pain. The flask Hermione made him drink worked.

 

"It's late," Hermione said. "Ron, we should let Harry get some sleep."

 

Harry was about to protest when he yawned widely enough to crack his jaw. Within ten minutes he was in a deep sleep not induced by injury or magic.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

In the wee hours of the morning, Harry stirred at the sound of someone in his room. Cracking his eyes open, he saw Ron's outline in the moonlight. A waning moon just past full, it cast enough light for Harry to watch Ron undress.

 

There'd been an awareness of him all day. Well, were he to be honest with himself, since Ron first pulled the corner of that blanket off his face and pushed back his fringe to reveal his lightning-bolt scar. Some connection had sparked between them that Harry couldn't identify.

 

And because it was there under the surface, something he couldn't identify, he was wary of it. He didn't think he was afraid of the feeling, but he was afraid of what that feeling might mean.

 

It was what drove him to watch Ron undress by moonlight. With each article of clothing shed, Harry become both more aroused and more terrified. When Ron got down to his boxers, Harry began silently praying -- _if "Oh God" could be considered praying_ \-- but he didn't know if it was for the removal of the boxers or for Ron to leave them on.

 

He was so caught in his conundrum that he almost missed Ron staring down at him, sighing heavily, and murmuring, "Oh, Harry," with such longing it actually made Harry uncomfortable. Ron sighed again, then crawled into the bed opposite Harry's.

 

It was nearly dawn before Harry got back to sleep.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The next week followed a similar pattern at Grimmauld Place: breakfast with Ron and Hermione, reintroduction of friends or Weasleys, lunch, more people, dinner, then Harry's retreat to the room he discovered that first night he was to share with Ron. By the end of the week the stress was beginning to take a toll. If he didn't snap at someone, Harry could more often than not be found in his shared room, caressing the threadbare blanket Ron had returned to him.

 

He was sexually frustrated and overwhelmed by Harry Potter's life. He'd found books in Hermione's room and read about his life. He had no family, only friends, and few enough of those had survived a war won when he became a murderer. He was beginning to piece together what was expected of Harry Potter and wanted no part of it. Hence finding comfort in the one part of Lightning's life he still had.

 

"What are you doing, Harry?" Ron asked from the doorway.

 

Harry looked up, his breath catching in his throat when he got a good look at Ron. It was an unusually warm day, so Ron's concession to the heat was to wear only cutoff jeans. His shoulders and the dusting of red hair on his chest sparkled with sweat.

 

"What are you doing?" Ron repeated, this time gesturing to the blanket Harry was worrying in his lap.

 

"Thinking of leaving," Harry admitted. Becoming Lightning again was a strong urge. He was good at defending himself, scar on his throat notwithstanding, and could forage well. He could survive in London. He'd be more careful this time as well. He'd asked Hermione how he was found and she'd admitted it had been by wandless magic. Without thought, he'd heated his dinner with magic one night.

 

Ron shifted, tucking his hands into his pockets, drawing the denim tight across his crotch.

 

"Can you do something for me before you leave?" he asked after a prolonged silence. Harry set aside the blanket and nodded. "Go flying with me."

 

"Flying?" Harry repeated skeptically.

 

Ron grinned devilishly. "Flying."

 

Harry shrugged. "Sure."

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Brooms?" Harry was horrified and disbelieving.

 

Ron shoved a black-handled broom at him. "Brooms."

 

"You're cracked," Harry said, rolling his eyes. Didn't Ron know only witches in movies used brooms to fly? While cackling? And at night?

 

Ron's devilish grin reappeared. "Completely." He mounted his broom. "Fly."

 

Utterly skeptical, Harry straddled his broom. Something about the feel of it triggered something too fleeting to recall.

 

"Catch me, Harry!" Ron called. Harry looked up -- Ron was at least fifty feet above his head and rising. He was careful to stay within the bounds of the tree line of the paddock behind the Weasley family home, though.

 

Gripping the broom, he tried to consider how he'd actually get it to move. He was concentrating so hard that he never noticed he'd risen a few feet a second and was parallel with Ron.

 

He startled badly when Ron leaned over and murmured, "Hello."

 

The broom dove to the ground with Harry holding on for his life.

 

"Pull up!" Ron shouted. "Pull up, Harry!"

 

Instinctively, Harry pulled the nose of his broom upward sharply. His toes dragged the grass before his broom shot upwards again.

 

"You bastard!" Harry growled at Ron when they were parallel again.

 

Ron grinned. "Have to catch me first." He darted down and to the right, weaving around a post with a hoop at the top, giving Harry a jaunty wave as he did so.

 

Harry bent down over his broom and dove after Ron. They flew like that for several minutes, Ron leading Harry on a merry chase, before Ron pulled to a stop in mid-air about seventy-five feet above the paddock. Harry pulled up beside him, breathless and grinning.

 

"You did it, Harry," Ron said quietly.

 

Harry blinked, looked down, then looked back at Ron. Ron raised one eyebrow. Biting his lower lip, Harry looked down at his broom. Tilting his head to the side, he saw the word etched in gold in the side of the handle: _Firebolt_.

 

A thousand images assaulted him, starting with his receipt of the Firebolt and leading up to sitting on it next to Ron nearly ten years later. With a whoop of joy, Harry dove nearly vertically for the ground.

 

"Harry!" Ron shouted, following.

 

Though he pulled up in an imitation of a Wronski Feint, Harry and Ron ended up tangled on the ground, brooms beside them.

 

"Are you okay, Harry?" Ron asked, pulling back for a better look at Harry.

 

Harry grinned and flipped them both over so he would be on top. "Never better. Bitch of a headache though."

 

Ron stared for a long moment, hope creeping into his eyes. Harry softened his smile to the one only he and Ron shared and Ron knew, knew then that his Harry was back.

 

He did, however, smack Harry upside the head. "You bastard! When you dove like that I thought you'd fallen! You could have died!" He grabbed one of Harry's hands and pressed the palm to the center of his chest. Ron's heart was beating like a hummingbird's. "I thought you were going to fall and die."

 

Harry cocked his head to one side, slid his hand from Ron's chest to the back of his neck, and whispered, "I won't leave you again, Ron," just before kissing him.


End file.
